Comes the clear lustre of the sunlit dawn Half bathed in splendour, half in gloom withdrawn, The other still in sombre shade remains; Until the shadow ever backward creeping No more the brightness of the gleam restrains, Long undulations in pure glory steeping, Like lines on waved sand in summer sunshine sleeping. Above, great pinnacles their summits raise, High spires of marble foam; and arches white There midmost stand in breadth of golden might Upon a field of azure gleaming bright A sea of crested arches, wave on wave Tossing themselves in wreaths of sculptured spray, Such was the vision that I saw appear, When Venice took the Lion for her sign Ere vice could shame its pride or blood incarnadine. The Lion of St. Mark still stands erect, But sees the pride of all his glory stained; Her walls with gold and azure still are decked, She tasted Pleasure; tasting, craved for more, But like the apple of the Dead Sea's shore Found Pleasure turn to ashes, in repentance sore. She was the crowning city of the sea, Queen of the hundred isles, and gained the name Ruling her purposes, till purest fame St. Mark's incrusted walls and lustrous gold, So stood the Church, a Bible lifted high "He shall return," with strength and power endowed To raise the humble and lay low the proud. But Venice hearkened not: at her right hand A glorious Bible stood; yet she allowed Transgression from His law and mild command, And sinning found in sin her peace for ever banned. What though the East has lavished all her skill Though Fancy's richest hues the pages fill Its language is forgotten: men aspire Not to regard the lesson of its lore, But to be dressed in vain and tricked attire, To enter Pleasure's portals, or the door It is alone and desolate amid A crowded city, that will never know Its beauty and its teaching, lying hid From their dull hearts and eyes, although they go Before its gates for ever to and fro. Revels and tragedies have passed away Forgotten; idle masquers still below Pursue their heedless path, though day by day Those solemn domes are witness to the paltry play. The madness of the World assembles there, Stands silent unregarded, and the cry, "St. Mark and Liberty," the ancient boast Of glorious Venice, is a memory, That wakes no echo, dies itself almost St. Mark's behest unheeded and all freedom lost. |